


The Aftermath

by gesumin



Series: sex can wait, masturbate [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, papa bless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 13:08:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8534329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gesumin/pseuds/gesumin
Summary: [Sequel to The Lesson] Ron deals with loss.





	

**Author's Note:**

> if you haven't read "The Lesson" then read that first or else an angel will lose its wings. Alternate title is "Se(I)RIoUS" because hehe that spells Sirius how funny i want to die. <3
> 
>  
> 
> why did i write this

It’s been a week since Harry’s death and the tangible upset still lingers inside the halls of Hogwarts, as well as Ron’s brain. He feels the weight of guilt pushing on him, pulling him close to the floor and drowning him in debilitating grief. He can’t help but feel responsible for driving Harry to suicide and all because he could not muster any attraction to appease his friend. Despite this fact, Ron still feels wracked to his core, as if Harry did perhaps have a stronger hold on Ron’s heart than Ron was aware of. 

The seven days of aftermath were like stages of decomposition. The carcass dumped upon Hogwarts and Ron’s backs was heavy and all-consuming. The carcass began to rot, the weight seeping off into the soil to create new potential, only to leave behind the bones of a life force that once was. Only for Ron it feels increasingly hard to face, regardless of the support from his family or Hermione’s own efforts to retrieve Ron from cavernous depression. 

At night, Ron sees Harry like horrible apparitions that first comfort, until the realization of Harry’s absence kicks in, and the comfort shatters into utter horror and an unbearable sadness that occasionally spawns vomit. Ron’s aware of the stages of grief and how everything gets better as one faces a tragedy, but Ron can’t see a positive conclusion. He feels exhaustion nipping at his under eyes and the constant beating against his head if he ever bothers to go outside his dorm. He managed to stow away for two days before teachers forced him out and to see a counselor. Receiving therapy feels redundant and pressures him to seek a breakthrough he can’t help but notice he won’t reach. It’s like swimming upstream, except he’s not strong to fight the current and he just gets swept along toward the inevitable drop.

He can’t look at himself naked. Seeing his cock is like a punch in the gut. He finds himself wishing Harry’s hand would return and to redo that one fateful night. He’d do anything to have Harry back, but the idea is a foolish one. 

Ron’s taken up sleepwalking in the few days after Harry’s death. He often finds himself to have wandered off out of his dorm to lean against the railings of the moving staircases, only noticing once a staircase clicks into place and nearly jolts him off the side. He’s terrified as to what it means and the more he reads into it, the more it sickens him.

Hermione is losing hold of Ron at this point. Reaching out to him is an impossibility and she is only able to watch from a distance as the redhead crumbles in on himself. It’s actually quite interesting, seeing someone dissolve completely. It’s its own spectacle, seeing a complete human deteriorate to a near-infantile state. Ron can hardly seem to focus when he’s able to attend class. Eating is lost on him as well. Ron can only revel in the fact that he’s not able to cry anymore. It gets exhausting, the sting of the tear ducts, the loss of vision, and the upheaval of anything in his stomach--ultimately stomach bile. His path to numbness is welcomed, along with the increasing appearance of Harry's apparition. 

It takes an embarrassing amount of time for Ron to realize that these apparitions are in fact existent. Harry's ghost is lurking around the dorm, disturbing Ron and keeping him from sleep. What irritates Ron is how no one else seems to be aware of this. He feels like he's actually going crazy. He might as well be, what with his complete denial of basic needs. 

This particular night, Ron sees a flash of white lingering near Harry's bed, which has been stripped of sheets and curtains to only show a bare bed frame. He catches the glimmer of Harry's glasses, shifting in the moonlight and taunting his perception. Neville and Seamus are sound asleep as Ron stumbles to his feet with weary, bloodshot eyes. He follows Harry's figure to the door and down the stairs to the common room without a word. Harry phases through the portrait entrance and Ron follows, pushing the portrait roughly and tripping over his own feet. Harry stops moving at the top of a set of stairs, his eyes dull and his mouth taut. 

Ron holds himself, his feet cold against the stone. His eyes sting. He thought he was done with crying. Apparently he’s not. “I can’t bear myself, Harry.” He gasps, his voice hoarse and shaking. Harry stares back without response. “I can’t look at myself in the mirror. Can’t even hold my cock to piss. I’m in a really bad way.” Ron wipes at his eyes furiously. “I’m sorry. I know I did this. I deserve this. I deserve to hate myself for the rest of my life. I deserve to see your bloody face every night to remind me of the piece of shit I am.” Ron looks down at his feet and his tense toes, sniffling and digesting. “I didn’t understand. I didn’t recognize how you felt. I think I...I think I feel the same. I just didn’t know it at the time. I’m a fucking idiot, Harry.” Saying his name burns like acid on his tongue. He holds his stomach this time, letting out a saddened gasp. “I don’t know what to do. I hurt all over and it feels like being burned alive. Hermione is getting tired of telling me things will be okay.” Ron lifts his head to make eye contact with Harry’s transparent eyes. “It won’t be okay, will it?”

Harry’s figure hovers backward, through the railing to stand midair above the many moving staircases. 

“I see.” Ron says, wiping his nose free of snot. “You’ve always had a look about you, that you know what’s right. You’re a good guy, Harry.” Ron stammers a bit. “You  _ were _ …” He steps forward to lean against the railing. He looks down, unfazed. “I’m quite rotten, don’t you think? Don’t know why you bothered being my friend.” Ron looks back at Harry and shudders. “You’re a good person. Guess that’s why. But I really did it this time, huh? Really set you off. I shattered that resilience you always had.” Harry slowly holds out his white, translucent hand and Ron freezes, his eyes flooding with massive tears that stream down his pale cheeks effortlessly. “You still want me?” His hands hold tightly onto the railing as he teeters forward, aching to touch his hand. “I want you too.” Ron cries, propping his foot on the railing and reaching out a hand, toppling forward and over the edge, falling far below Harry’s figure, and colliding with the banisters of other staircases. He comes to a hard, bone-shattering stop a few sets of stairs down, his consciousness already lost and impossible to regain. Ron’s body shifts with the steps for an hour or so before being discovered and hurried to the hospital wing, where any attempt at resuscitation is useless. 

His family and friends are notified, and the shock of another suicide so soon after the first leaves the school even more distraught. Hermione, although woeful, refuses to let herself become what Ron had, and spends the following months spreading the word of masturbation because, all in all, that’s the real message here. 


End file.
